


There are September mornings better than this

by emokid6969



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:22:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17477774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emokid6969/pseuds/emokid6969
Summary: Narcissa has regrets





	There are September mornings better than this

 

Draco is fair like Lucius, and Harry is dark like Sirius. This should have told Narcissa everything, but of course it was four years before Narcissa realized, and even then, it was an incomplete realization, a half-formed "isn't this funny" tickling of the back of the head in the middle of a slow winter inventory, because the crystal glasses in the emerald room have vines carved into their green faces and Narcissa had always wanted to make sure that each one was still there, accounted for.

Fall, and Draco is about to be off on the train forever, so Narcissa stays out of the way and tries to let things go smoothly, to keep everything in its place. This can't go well, but there are things worse than unwell, and Narcissa is consoled by this thought, letting Draco go away with lackeys, supervisors, and strict instructions from Lucius. There are other things worth fearing more than one unhappy child, Narcissa thinks, like a repeating of the thought before, but with a different face exposed, one that is somewhat less comfortable. But the station on the other side of King's Cross is crowded, and the thought is soon jostled out, so that when Narcissa leaves with Lucius and no child to instruct, only the small, cold fingers of fear hold tight to the hair at the back of Narcissa's neck, where the wind and its sneakiness are cover story enough to account for the unease.

Spring, then. Spring, green with growing things and the particular manic oxygen of a waking-up forest, spring with Draco's return home and another visit to the station, where, this time, a little past the child Narcissa is to pick up and deliver home, is a face very, very like Sirius's, with hair that isn't quite --. The unease, tethered long in Narcissa's chest, sends roots straight to Narcissa's shoes and then blooms, vividly, disgustingly, because there are many reasons Narcissa could be here but, to be here for Draco. To have made an offspring, when seventeen years separate Narcissa from what can only be, eleven years old and so, so unfinished, someone... what, eight years away from proprietous courtship? Six for legal and somewhat improprietous courtship, if the idea of a romance with a Hogwarts student had merit, which of course it did, but, of course, Draco.

And so Draco was taken away from the train station with someone who, perhaps, could have, eventually learned to love. But still, not yet.

First, there is the summer before second year, the summer of stories for Narcissa, from Draco, about Harry Potter. Narcissa spent the school year in careful planning, how exactly to ask without seeming to ask, when anything could have changed Draco into anyone at Hogwarts but, no, Draco returns and is exactly who Narcissa remembers, when after a year of events Draco should have been full of stories, positively bursting with changing from them. But Lucius, Narcissa supposes, and after all, what with things at Hogwarts going the way they might be, better to have a young, plausible defender of loyalty in the house of Malfoy with the blood of a thousand Blacks, all the way back to ancient Adrienne at the temple of Brisbane and Bruxton whose past no seer can divine, to defend Narcissa's allegiance when such defense must be... offered. To... whomever might need it. In case of emergencies. And so when Draco divulges in early July, over pear consomme served in the shells of still-living silver-eyed tortoises, that Harry Potter became, at eleven, the Seeker for the House of Gryffindor in a frantic scramble over some precious trinket misplaced by that brat using Frank Longbottom's wand in which Draco, with all of Lucius's meticulous training, was outstripped by Harry Potter on a school broom, Narcissa summons Toady with hands that do not shake and says, "That reminds me," draws out from temple with wandtip the memory of Draco just seconds ago describing Harry's flight, the tight race and Draco's flaming indignation acutely present at this, the height of recall for Narcissa's memory of that moment, because if there are memories worth waiting to preserve, the Pensieve has never had a more urgent use for Narcissa than now. The memory clings to Narcissa's wand, fresh and viscous, then pulls away like taffy, like mercury, in a fat drop to somewhere near the center of the memories that Toady can't quite keep from quietly, occasionally sloshing. It's not wise, but there are worse things than unwiseness, and Draco is just barely turned twelve; hardly a liability when there are immediate explanations like "Lucius will need me, after the Ministry," to make Draco breathe the smallest of sighs, which is exasperation or, perhaps, Narcissa thinks on the way up the stairs to the third drawing chamber where the Pensieve is waiting, disappointment.

In the drawing chamber, the kept breezes are warm and slow, blooming out from the joins in bookshelving and the spouts of the chandelier's gleaming brass trumpet lilies. Narcissa tests the spark of a gaul pen against a side table's flint edge; it flares green in the room's orange lights. Swiftly, Narcissa descends into memory.

The rest of the summer passes in verdant silence; secrets are kept, though these secrets, Narcissa thinks in half-grown curling vine-clenches of regret, are surely better kept, must be. Draco passes through Malfoy house halls and no portrait will ever find Draco unfitting, surely. The rest of the summer passes and Narcissa is unsure.

 


End file.
